


innominate

by Hinn_Raven



Series: deprivation [5]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Brainwashing, Captivity, Gen, Recovery, Therapy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-09 02:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11659479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinn_Raven/pseuds/Hinn_Raven
Summary: Names are important. Felix and Locus have one they like to call Wash when he behaves.





	innominate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZaliaChimera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/gifts).



> Hey-yo Deprivation is back, with more Wash whump! Zalia suggested that Locus knowing Wash's real name could definitely be a fun thing to incorperate into this series, and I definitely agreed! 
> 
> **Warnings for:** Violence, captivity, trauma, abuse, the normal warnings for this verse.

Wash doesn’t know how long he’s been here. Here in this cell, or here as Locus’s captive or even here on this planet. He knows the exact number of days he was in the canyon with the others, can probably even calculate the hours if he tried. But he’s still not sure how long he was kept unconscious to be transported here, and since being shoved in this cell he has even less of an idea of how long it’s been.

The room he’s in is a simple small concrete square. There’s a place for him to relieve himself in the corner and a faucet, meant for a hose rather than for a person, for him to drink from but that’s it. There’s not even a blanket or a thin mattress in the corner, there’s no form of entertainment. Just a few cameras, blinking in the corners, letting Wash know that they’re watching him. Always watching.

Wash hasn’t been fed. They’re starving him down, Wash figures, keeping him weak. Felix’s vague threat of making him kill Tucker haunts him, and the back of his neck twinges, reminding him that they did… _something_ to him when he first woke up. What, Wash doesn’t know, but it can’t be good.

The door opens, and Wash scrambles to his feet, shifting until he’s ready to fight. He might be out of armor and dizzy with hunger, but he can make them work for it. Whatever “it” is.

Locus stands there, tilting his head to look at him, while Felix lurks behind. Both of them are in full armor, even if they’re not armed as far as wash can tell.

“You must be hungry, Wash,” Felix taunts. “I mean, you haven’t eaten in… how long has it been?”

Wash grits his teeth and says nothing, refusing to answer to the bait. Felix wants to get him to admit he doesn’t know how long it’s been. Wash refuses to give him the satisfaction. Felix moves past Locus into the cell, circling Wash at a distance. Wash tries to track him with his eyes, but he doesn’t turn, not wanting to leave his back exposed to Locus. He moves backwards instead until his back is to the wall.

Locus pulls out a ration bar, and extends it towards Wash. “Today,” Locus intones, staring right at Wash. “Your training begins.”

Wash considers not moving, but he needs to eat. Reluctantly, he takes several steps forward, towards Locus, when Felix strikes with a hard kick to the back of his knees, sending Wash to the ground, hard. Wash catches himself with his hands and tries to get back up, but Felix settles his foot in the center of Wash’s back and settles his weight there. Wash exhales sharply as the air is forced out of his chest, and winces, knowing he’ll bruise there, where Felix’s boot digs into his skin.

“Hands and knees, Wash,” Felix says. “Prove you know who’s the boss here.”

Wash sets his jaw as Felix removes his foot. “I won’t,” he snaps. “Fuck you.”

Felix sighs loudly and theatrically. “Well, you know what to do when we come back.” He and Locus leave then, the door slamming shut behind them. Wash gets to his feet and grabs the doorknob, hoping they haven’t locked it yet. He screams as electricity courses through him, sending him flat on his back.

They were ready for that, it seemed. Wash swallows and goes to the tap to get himself some water to try to take the edge off the hunger pangs.

But when he turns the knob, nothing comes out.

Wash doesn’t give a reaction, knowing they’re watching through the cameras, and that Felix is probably still laughing at him for trying the door. Instead, he goes and lies down, trying to think of ways to escape.

He has to cooperate, he realizes. He needs to keep his strength up to escape. Even if they don’t want him dead, he needs to be able to fight. Even if it means giving them what they want.

They come back a while later. Felix tilts his helmet at Wash, expecting. Wash flushes, hating that he’s so exposed while they’re in armor, but reluctantly gets on his hands and knees to approach. When he gets there Felix steps behind him and grabs his hands, cuffing them together behind his back. Wash tries to struggle, but he’s secured before he can do anything. Felix grabs his hair and yanks him onto his knees, laughing at the little grunt of pain Wash can’t stop from making.

Locus holds out the ration bar again, and Wash grits his teeth, realizing where this is going. With his hands cuffed, he’s going to have to let Locus feed him.

He considers refusing again, but then they’ll just leave him here until he’s desperate enough that he _will_. And he needs to keep his strength up. And maybe they’ll let their guard down if they think he’s already breaking.

Gritting his teeth, Wash leans forward and takes a bite. Felix laughs behind him, and Wash flushes, but keeps going. The bar is bland but filling, which is the point, Wash supposes. Soon, the entire bar is gone, and Wash feels like he can think straight again, sitting back on his heels slightly, testing the cuffs.

Suddenly, unarmored fingers run through his hair comfortingly. Wash relaxes for a second before he tenses up, looking over his shoulder at Felix, whose glove is off as he pets Wash like he’s some sort of dog.

“Good job, David,” Locus murmurs, distracting Wash from the fingers in his hair.

Wash reels back. “What?” How could he possibly—

Locus turns out and walks away. Felix leaves after him a moment later because he stops to remove the handcuffs from Wash while he’s still dumbstruck on his knees.

They know his name.

His hand goes to the back of his neck again and he thinks about how he liked for a second feeling Felix’s hands in his air, and he wants to throw up.

Okay. So maybe they know what they’re doing here. 

* * *

“Your friends don’t know your name, do they?” Felix asks Wash, nudging him with his foot. Wash spits blood onto the concrete. His nose is broken, and there’s blood dripping into his eye from where his forehead had split open when Felix had shoved his face against the wall. He knows what Felix _wants_ him to do—he’s only a few inches over the red line, if he moved backwards, he could be back into permitted territory, but Wash is feeling stubborn today.

Wash glares up at Felix. “That’s not my name,” he snarls. Because it’s _not_. David was a kid who didn’t know what he was getting into, who’d never heard of Freelancer or Simulation Troopers, and certainly had never been kidnapped by two evil mercenaries who got their kicks from torturing him and training him to stay inside color coded lines.

Felix pulls back his foot and kicks Wash in the ribs hard. Wash lets out a yell and tries to roll away. His ribs are still sensitive from last week, when Locus had broken them. A round with the healing unit had healed most of the damage, but they were still sensitive. “Wash, we’ve told you. No talking.” He shakes his head. “Honestly, it’s like you _want_ to be punished.”

Wash doesn’t say anything, just pants through his teeth. Blood drips onto the concrete floor.  

“Good boy,” Felix says, and even with the helmet on, Wash can tell he’s smirking. He crouches down at Wash’s level, and idly grabs Wash’s broken nose to set it. Wash lets out another shout, trying to thrash away. “Does it make you upset, Wash?” Felix asks mockingly. “Knowing your enemies know your name while your friends don’t?” He leans over Wash’s ear and whispers. “Not that we’ll be your enemies for long, right Wash?”

Wash tries to punch him, but Felix just grabs his pinkie and pulls it back to the point where it’s about to break and Wash cries out again. It’s not even a complicated hold, but in Wash’s current state he can’t fight back enough to break out of it. He’s pathetic, and they both know it.  

“You’re really misbehaving today, aren’t you?” Felix muses, finally releasing Wash’s hand. Wash cradles it close to his chest, his breathing ragged. “Get back where you belong, Wash. Or I’ll ask Locus how many times I should cut you.” Wash doesn’t flinch away from the knife pressed against his cheek, but he can feel his heart speed up. He’s already got three still-healing gashes on his legs from the last time Wash had pissed Locus off enough to let Felix play.

Slowly, Wash forces himself to inch back into the hallway. He’d been looking for a way out. But Felix had been ready for him in the room behind the red line. Somehow, he’d known that was the one Wash was going to try.  

He doesn’t think about what Felix said as he crawls backwards, away from Felix. He doesn’t think about how he’s heard Locus and Felix use his name than anyone in years. That he’s _never_ heard Tucker or Caboose or Carolina say his name, because he’s never told them. The only person alive who knows his name is supposed to be the Counselor, not his captors.

When he gets into the hallway, Locus is waiting for him. Wash tries to struggle when Locus grabs the back of his neck and starts hauling him towards the cell, but he’s exhausted and hungry and injured, so he finds himself just hanging there limply after a few token struggles.

Locus physically throws him into the cell and Wash tries to stand, only for Locus’s fist to send him back down hard.

“This ends when you learn your place, Washington,” Locus says, with as little emotion as someone giving a weather report. He reaches holds out something in his hand that Wash hasn’t seen before. Pills. Two innocent looking white pills, stark against the grey of his glove. “You have been misbehaving today, Washington. This is your chance to prove to me that you can do better.”

The fear in Wash’s stomach is heavy. No. Not drugs. If they drug him, there goes any chance of escape. There goes everything. It will be like before Recovery, after Epsilon, he can’t—

Locus must have seen the intended refusal on his face, because before Wash can blink, Locus has knocked him flat on his back and pried his jaw open. The pills are tasteless on his tongue, but Wash still tries to spit them out before Locus slams his palm over Wash’s mouth.

“A pity,” Locus muses. “You will learn eventually, I suppose.”

Wash tries to tell him to go fuck himself, but there’s already something distant about the way Locus looks above him, a heaviness sinking into his bones that Wash knows should worry him but all he can think of is that it would be so much _easier_ if he just did what Locus said. Then maybe everything wouldn’t hurt.

Wash goes limp and Locus lets him sit up.

“Too strong,” Locus muses, yanking at Wash’s hair in a way that’s clearly meant to be painful, but Wash can’t find it in himself to care. He doesn’t feel it; his nerves feel dead. “We will have to adjust the dose.”

“We have time,” Felix says, and when did he get here? “It’ll be easier now that he can’t fight back as much.”

“He will learn,” Locus says, moving towards Felix. Wash tries to follow, pulled by something he can’t place. Locus notices, and then a scarred palm is pressed against Wash’s cheek. “Good boy, David,” Locus says softly. “You’re doing better.”

Wash leans against the comforting touch for as long as he’s allowed, grateful for the contact, even though a part of him says that he shouldn’t be, that he should be recoiling from Locus, that this is wrong.

But Wash doesn’t move.

* * *

“Come here, David.” Wash immediately moves towards Locus, something warm settling in his stomach at the name. Locus only calls him that when he’s pleased with him.

“You did well today,” Locus tells him, and Wash lets out a contented sigh as Locus runs his fingers through his hair.

“He didn’t recognize them at all, did he?” Felix laughs from his seat in the corner, where he’s running a coin over and between his fingers. “He went right for Caboose’s throat.”

Wash nuzzles Locus’s palm and wonders who Caboose is. His brain just is overwhelmed with images of dark, dangerous blue and… a helmet?

He loses that thought as Locus gestures for him to follow. Wash lets out a whine as he realizes where they’re going; the hospital.

“One last upgrade,” Locus tells him. “Then you’re ready for your new armor.”

Wash has been wearing the plain black armor that the pirates wear into the field. He knows what armor Locus intends for him to wear though, and reluctantly follows Locus into the room where the medic is waiting.

“I swear he looks more pathetic every time you bring him in here,” the medic says, sounding bored. “Get him on the table, I’ve got everything ready.”

Wash gets on the table, and holds still as the medic straps him in place. He shifts slightly when the medic pokes at his implant site, but forces himself to not make a noise.

“Last time, David,” Felix promises. A calm settles in Wash’s bones at that. He can be good. He can keep earning the name. He holds perfectly still and bites his tongue so hard that he tastes blood as the medic begins to drill into his implants again.

But he doesn’t scream. Not once.

* * *

“How are you feeling today, Washington?” Grey asks him, reaching across the table separating them and taking his hand. Wash feels himself relaxing minutely at the contact as always.

“Okay,” he says, hoarse. He’s still getting used to the sound of his own voice, and he doesn’t feel comfortable in this chair. All of his instincts, honed by Locus and Felix, tell him he should be on the floor. Chairs are for people, not weapons or pets or whatever he is. Was. Because he’s a person.

“Today I need you to tell me more about what happened when you were good, okay?” Grey asks, pulling Wash out of those thoughts.

“Why?” Wash blurts out. “Doesn’t—doesn’t the other stuff—”

“We need to know how to make you feel safe, Wash,” she says kindly. “And this is easier to talk about, isn’t it?”

Wash hesitates, and nods. It is easier than remembering punishments and the pain, much easier to think about than what Locus would do to him, if he saw Wash here, talking and sitting in a chair and not attacking the enemy.

“Alright,” she says. “So let’s start with food.”

Wash talks about the food for a while, stuttering a lot and tripping over himself the whole time. But Grey is patient and works with him through it, giving him water to drink and offering to call Tucker to help him eat if he needs. Wash shakes his head minutely. He doesn’t want Tucker to hear this.

“And, and sometimes,” Wash forces himself to say, his mouth going dry. “They’d—they’d call me—”

A wave of fear crashes over him suddenly and he clutches at his head, whimpering. All of his scars seem to flare up in pain and Wash’s hands slide down until they’re covering his implants, curling in on himself.

“Wash?” Grey says, and Wash forces his eyes open to look at her. She’s kneeling in front of him, hands on his face. “Wash, you don’t have to tell me. Do you want me to call Tucker?”

Wash shakes his head, even though he wants to say yes, call Tucker, bring Tucker or Grif or both of them here, let them deal with this. But he needs to do this himself. “They called me my name,” he whispers. He can’t say it, he doesn’t have it in him, but he can tell her this much. “My—my old name. They _knew it_.”

Grey’s eyes widen. “Oh my,” she whispers.

“They knew,” Wash says faintly. “They _knew_.”

Grey rubs his shoulders. “I think we’re done for the day Wash,” she says softly.

“It’s not—I don’t—I’m not _him_. But they used that name and I _liked it_ but it’s not _me_ and—”

Grey presses a finger to his lips softly. “Then we won’t use it if you don’t want us to, if you tell us. It’s your choice Wash. Remember that, okay? It’s your choice here. It always is.”

Wash looks down at her, still kneeling on the carpet of her office, hands on his shoulders, looking up at him and smiling, and Wash feels himself start to shake.

“Can you call them?” Wash whispers. “I—I can’t.” He doesn’t say what it is he can’t do, because it feels like it’s just an all-encompassing _everything_.  

“Certainly,” Grey says. “Do you have a preference?”

Wash shakes his head, sliding right out of the seat onto the floor as she gets up and walks across the room to get her helmet.

He feels more solid on the ground. Wash takes deep breaths and tries to ground himself, tries to calm down and stop seeing Locus behind his eyes before the others come and find him about to have a panic attack because he can’t say his old name out loud.

_“They’re the enemy, David. Kill them.”_


End file.
